


Just like old times

by Fantony



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Brotherly Love, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft Feels, Mycroft-centric, POV Mycroft Holmes, Protective Mycroft, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-21
Updated: 2016-01-12
Packaged: 2018-02-18 07:23:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2339960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fantony/pseuds/Fantony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You give me a black look and empty your glass in one draught. A two thousand pounds bottle of Essence de Courvoisier. I doubt you have taken the time to appreciate the delicate notes of apricot and hawthorn flower. What a waste." Mycroft is always there for Sherlock. Always. Follow their relationship during Season 3 through the eyes of Mycroft.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Apricot and hawthorn flower

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from Sherlock and Mycroft’s exchange in The sign of three. 
> 
> Note: Through this story, I just want to show how much Mycroft cares about Sherlock. I like to think that despite their disagreements and their perpetual squabbles, the brothers have a symbiotic relationship. It’s up to you to read this fanfic as a simple evidence of brotherly love or as a platonic Holmescest. Possible hints of Johnlock later. Not sure yet. 
> 
> Also note that the story is told by Mycroft. Therefore, the text is written in the first person but you will notice that Mycroft delivers his thoughts as if he was talking to Sherlock (hence the ‘You’) because even in his mind, he always ‘talks’ to Sherlock. 
> 
> If you want to, you can watch a Mycroft/Sherlock video I made a while ago. The lyrics pretty much sum up my view on their relationship, it shows how much Mycroft cares. Heart and shoulder: https://youtu.be/QtWu5EuvAKc 
> 
> PLEASE KEEP IN MIND THAT I'M FRENCH, HENCE THE ENGLISH MISTAKES! ;)

__

 

_The scene takes place at Mycroft’s, where Sherlock is staying after his return from Eastern Europe, on the night of Sherlock and John’s reunion. Mycroft is sitting in his chair by the fire, waiting for Sherlock to come back._

* * *

 

I can hear your steps getting closer and a whiff of tobacco runs through my nostrils, betraying your resort to nicotine on your way back home. Your reunion with that dear old doctor hasn’t been a great success, then. Not exactly a surprise.

“Didn’t I tell you you wouldn’t be welcome?” I tease you, not even turning around.

Without a word, you take the glass of brandy that I hold out to you over my shoulder – definitely not a good sign – and sit in the chair facing me. The flames which are dancing endlessly in the fireplace reflect on your face and I realise I have somewhat underestimated how much the doctor missed the war. Split lip, marks of strangulation, dried blood showing a violent blow to the nose. He sure didn’t pull his punches. Like a child who would have just had his most precious toy broken, I feel the anger boiling up inside me and I vow a sudden hatred to John Watson, close to the hatred I fostered towards all those reckless idiots who ventured to touch a single hair on your head, and God knows how many have at least tried!

The fact that you have genuinely considered that I enjoyed your Serbian torture is risible. I would have strangled your persecutor with my own hands if I could have, but it would have compromised the success of the plan, plus you know how much I hate getting my hands dirty. Of course, I ensured that he was taken care of once we were out of reach. Serbian jailers are not said to be very easy-going.

“It would have been preferable to wait a little longer before you broach the subject of his moustache,” I say in a deliberately detached tone.

“Shut up, Mycroft.”

“What did you expect, Sherlock? That he was going to throw himself into you?”

You give me a black look and empty your glass in one draught. A two thousand pounds bottle of Essence de Courvoisier.  I doubt you have taken the time to appreciate the delicate notes of apricot and hawthorn flower. What a waste.

So you really believed John would welcome you with open arms and that things would go back to the way they used to be? Your naivety inspires me a myriad of caustic comments but the expression on your face incites me to restrain them. I know that expression. It is exactly the same that you displayed on that very same chair, the night of your little act two years ago. An expression that reminds me, if ever needed, O how fragile you are, brother mine. Much more than anyone can imagine. Much more than you are even aware of.

I assume this is one of those moments where a _normal_ person would embrace you and tell you everything is going to be alright, but _normal_ is hardly a word people use when they talk about us, is it?

“Give him some time, Sherlock,” I simply say.

“How much time?”

I sigh. You have never distinguished yourself for your patience.

“He saw you jump off a building. He saw you bathe in what he believed to be your own blood. He buried you. He visited your grave almost every week. He spent two years mourning you.”

“Precisely. Then he should be happy to see me.”

I can’t help but smile. I have always been amused – amused and alarmed I must admit – by that perpetual paradox between your genius mind and your ignorance of human nature. As a kid, you already saw the world with the eyes of an adult, but you have always seen the heart and its mysteries with the eyes of a child. Therefore, you only see in my attitude towards you a will of interference and a superiority complex. You are blind to my true motivations. Somehow, I have to confess that it suits me. You are my unique weakness, and if you ever knew how important you are to me, no doubt you would use that power against me.

“I told him I was sorry,” you mutter.

I raise an eyebrow at those words. If remorse has been eating me up inside for years, little by little, it is only a vague and distant concept to you. Of course, you know how it is generally expressed, but expressing it genuinely yourself? That’s a first. You really care for your doctor.

“And Mary said she’d talk him round,” you add and out of the corner of my eye, I watch you pour yourself another glass of brandy.

Mary. Yes... Mary Elizabeth Morstan. Her real name still escapes the secret services. I have put my best individuals on the case though, but their efficiency is as dreadful as ever. I already have my thoughts on the matter, but you know how much I am fond of legwork... The terrorist attack that is brewing in the heart of London is not the only reason that encouraged me to bring you home, Sherlock.

I wonder what you have deduced about her. How clearly have you seen her little game? If Irene Adler imposed herself as a redoubtable enemy, she does not hold a candle to that woman. The future Mrs Watson (because if we take a moment to consider John’s salary, it is quite obvious that he could only have one idea in mind when he took her to a restaurant whose bill is a three numbers one at best) keeps her cards to her chest and erase all traces. Extremely intelligent. Extremely dangerous. There is clear evidence that the war is not the only thing that John Watson misses. If Mary skilfully orchestrated their first meeting, very little effort was necessary to seduce John, and she knew it. She knew that unconsciously, he was in search of adrenaline. She knew that unconsciously, he would be attracted to a woman like her. Like he had been attracted to you. Because John is attracted to danger...

* * *

 

The fourth glass of brandy gets the better of you and as I kneel beside the toilet bowl to wipe the last traces of vomit away from your mouth with a handkerchief, a look of utter disgust on my face, I bitterly regret to have let you drink that much. If Mummy saw you right now, she would put me through hell.

Walking you to your bedroom is hardly any more thrilling. Leading you to the first floor is an achievement in itself, and listening to your nonsensical jeremiads requires the patience of a saint. When I think you will still dare say to anyone who would care to listen that I am the worst brother ever. Your _arch enemy_ , as you so like to say. Believe me, Sherlock, the _other one_ would have never cared about you like I do. _(1)_

You let yourself fall onto your bed and I stare in horror at your Yves Saint Laurent shoes covered in mud on the cashmere blanket. With a sigh, I take off your shoes and trousers and I tuck you in while you, ungrateful idiot, complain about my lack of gentleness.

“You’d better sleep now, Sherlock. I’ve heard enough out of you.”

I turn on my heels but you grab my wrist.

“Sing me a lullaby!”

I frown.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me perfectly well, Mycroft.”

I’m afraid I did, indeed.

“This is ridiculous. Do I need to remind you of your age, brother dear?”

“Sing me a lullaby or I won’t be able to sleep!”

I grit my teeth. I know from experience that you are, alas, appallingly stubborn and that even under the influence of alcohol, you won’t let me leave this room as long as I don’t give in. Reluctantly, I sit on the edge of the bed and clear my throat, trying to forget the position I hold in the British government.

“Baa Baa Black Sheep, have you any wool?” I start to sing perfunctory.

“Oh, for God’s sake, not this one!” You cut me off. “I want _Baby Mine_!”

I freeze. This is the song from _Dumbo_. You loved that movie as a child, probably because you could identify with that pathetic elephant calf that was rejected because of its difference, and you kept asking me to sing that song every night. I... I didn’t know... I thought those memories had long been eradicated from your mind palace. I desperately try to ignore the glow of warmth spreading through my whole body.

“I thought you had forgotten.”

“Hmm...” You mumble into your pillow. “Sing!”

“Little one, when you play. Pay no heed to what they say,” I strike up, surprised to remember the lyrics so easily, “let your eyes sparkle and shine. Never a tear, baby mine. If they knew all about you, they’d end up loving you too. All those same people who scold you, what they’d give just for the right to hold you...”

I am rather glad you are too drunk to notice the tremor in my voice.

I am rather glad it is too dark for you to see the tears threatening to escape my eyes.

Oh Sherlock, you alone can break my shell like that. Instinctively, I run my fingers through your dark curls like I used to do a long time ago. Such a long time ago. You close your eyes almost immediately, and I straighten very slowly, for fear of waking you up.

“Mycroft!” You call me as I was about to walk out the door.

I jump and turn around.

“Yes, what, Sherlock?” I ask, trying to sound exasperated.

“You know, there’s something... There’s something I’ve always meant to tell you but never have,” your voice is hesitant and my heart skips a beat. Oh no, not this. I am not prepared for such an excess of sentiment. What will I answer you? “I’m really glad I haven’t inherited the same nose as yours.”

And this is all the gratitude you are capable of showing me... I roll my eyes.

“Yes... Goodnight, Sherlock.”

I will never let you touch my Essence de Courvoisier again.

* * *

 

_(1) The “other one” refers to the other sibling Mycroft mentions at the end of His last vow._

_Sorry if Mycroft’s language is too “informal”, like I said, English isn’t my mother tongue._

**_Thanks for reading! :)_ **


	2. Rope Bridge

The sound of running water in the upstairs bathroom has stopped. I glance at my pocket watch. Forty-one minutes in the shower. Soap won’t rid you of your demons, Sherlock… But I am counting on you to track down those who are roaming slyly in the bowels of the city. Right under our feet. I already know who has taken the reins of the operation, when and where he is going to strike and I have come up with theories as to how he is going to proceed. I could share them with you and save you precious time for your legwork, but I prefer to leave you to your own deductions. I know you well, Sherlock. I know what you have been through in the last two years. I know what would probably happen if you didn’t keep your mind busy enough.

I asked Anthea to cancel my morning meetings not because I thought you couldn’t deal with the side-effects of alcohol on your own but because I fear that last night’s little misfortune was only a bitter foretaste of your distress. I don’t want to find you lying in some dark and sordid alley. I don’t want to rummage through your pockets and find a list of words scrawled in shaky handwriting on the back of a receipt. I don’t want my heart to sink a little further in my chest with each single word. I don’t want to be blinded by the revolving lights of an ambulance. I don’t want to spend entire nights holding your hand and wondering if I’ll ever see that strange colour of your eyes again. I don’t want to lose you, Sherlock.

I scan the Daily Telegraph’s article on the new anti-terrorism bill in the hope of chasing away those memories which have never ceased to haunt me, but I have an irrepressible need to see you, to talk to you, to make sure you are still there. Fully alive…

Your bedroom door is open. An old habit. As a child, you never closed your door unless Mummy summoned you to. Maybe it gave you the impression to keep a link with the outside world. You have always been much less solitary than you pretend to be. Why would I have incited you to find a flatmate four years ago? The financial aspects were just a poor excuse. I didn’t know at that time that it would definitely turn your life upside down…

Standing in the door frame, I watch you with your back at me, tousling your wet curls with a towel. You are wearing nothing but a pair of trousers which your belt struggles to hold steady.

If I hadn’t been able to ignore your face emaciated by too many months spent pursuing Moriarty’s shadows throughout hostile lands, it had been much easier so far to turn a blind eye to the more subtle marks left by your exile.

“How long you gonna stand there and stare?” You ask without turning around. “Don’t you have better things to do? Portugal’s prime minister must be terribly disappointed to be deprived of your company.”

Under other circumstances, I would be sure to lecture you and to remind you, like I have done so many times in the past, that even when your name is Sherlock Holmes and when you take perverse pleasure to break the rules, you must show your older brother a minimum of respect. But I am not in the mood to preach at you. I don’t even try to find out what gave my schedule away. My mind is somewhere else. I can’t take my eyes off your back.

Haematomas. Deep cuts. Cigarette burns. Infected wounds.

“There was no need to cancel your morning appointments to play the nanny, Mycroft. I’m not a child anymore,” you add in an offended tone, putting on a shirt.

A shirt. That is all you have needed to create illusion. A simple shirt. Just like the magician makes the white dove disappear behind a silk scarf, you have concealed your pain behind a simple piece of fabric. But the magician’s scarf is nothing but a decoy. It is only there to distract our attention and to hide the truth. It is much easier to believe the dove magically disappeared rather than to try and understand what happened behind the scarf. I shamefully pretended to forget what was hidden behind that piece of cotton fabric.

“What’s wrong? Why don’t you just say something?” You ask nervously as I close the distance between us without a word. “Mycroft!”

You turn around and find yourself face to face with me. I narrow my eyes as I realise your torso has unfortunately no reason to be jealous of your back. Not a single bit of your skin seems to have been spared. With the tips of my fingers, I brush your wounds slowly. As if to become permeated with your pain. You don’t flinch but you are breathing faster and I can hear every punch of your torturer resonate in my head. Oh, Sherlock. How can you stand when your entire body is nothing more than a wasteland? I had, however, promised myself that I would protect you.

“I will ask Professor McLaughlin to examine you on a regular basis,” I say, putting an unconcerned tone in my voice.

The reputation of this doctor is well-established. He is regarded as the best practitioner of England and far beyond.

“Useless. I already have my own doctor,” you retort.

“A doctor with rather unorthodox methods,” I point out, a mocking smile on my lips.

You instinctively touch your bruised nose and glare at me.

“Sherlock, we both know that even if that dear doctor was more inclined to talk rather than to punch you, you still wouldn’t have a word with him about that. You wouldn’t want him to know he is not the only one who suffered during the last two years. And I’m not only talking about your little scratches.”

You grit your teeth. It is barely perceptible but I know you by heart and I know I am right. You have always preferred aversion to compassion.

“Does guilt taste good, brother mine?”

I knew you would try to change the subject.

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” I lie, busying myself buttoning your shirt to avoid your eyes.

You smirk.

“On the contrary. You know perfectly well what I’m talking about. I wouldn’t be in such a bad shape if you had intervened sooner, Mycroft.”

My jaw tightens and my hands linger on the penultimate button of your shirt.

“And you know perfectly well why I didn’t.”

“Oh yes I know. I told you, you enjoyed watching me being tortured. You’ve always had a touch of sadism inside you.”

I roll my eyes. If only you knew how much it devastated me. Torturing you is torturing me too, Sherlock. My wounds are not visible but they are real, believe me.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Sherlock. I had no choice.”

“Hmm… It’s a matter of perspective… So pray tell me, brother dear, which aroused you the most? Strangulation? Flagellation?”

“Sherlock!”

You seem as disconcerted as I am by the wrathful tone of my voice. By my hands clenched in shaky fists. I don’t normally let my emotions show. I meet your eyes and the arrogant smile you were sporting vanishes just as your eyes avoid me. I am getting ready for another of your childish comments but you seem to have lost your confidence and the silence becomes oppressive.

“I wouldn’t have made it out alive without you, Mycroft,” you finally say, planting a gentle kiss on my cheek. “Thank you.”

It takes my brain a couple of seconds to register and analyse the words which have just escaped your mouth. It takes me a couple more to search your face in vain for any sign of irony, and a couple more again to manage to articulate an answer.

“I… You know very well that Mummy would never have forgiven me if I hadn’t brought you back in one piece,” I mumble.

Oh, this is not a lie, but in the same way as the terrorist threat that lingers on in London, it is definitely not the main reason I took the first plane to Serbia as soon as I learnt from a reliable source that you were held captive.

“Obviously,” you reply, struggling to suppress the amused smile taking over your lips.

You know. You know that your words have shaken me. You know that they have been like a typhoon in my heart. You have always been my first priority and if there is nothing I would not do for you, you have never shown me any sign of gratitude. I was used to this. I didn’t expect anything else from you. You know, and I appreciate that you don’t make any comment.

“Where are you going?” I ask, watching you throwing haphazardly a dozen of shirts into a large suitcase lying wide-open on the bed.

You shoot a mocking glance at me over your shoulder. “Silly question.”

Of course it is a silly question. Of course I already know the answer. I’m only trying to gain composure, Sherlock.

“You haven’t forgotten that John didn’t live there anymore, have you?”

“So what? You’ll pay the full rent to Mrs Hudson. Don’t tell me John’s meagre participation made any difference to you. Don’t worry Mycroft, that won’t deprive you of your daily supply of pastries from Maison Bertaux.” _(*)_

“You can stay here. If you want,” I venture, ignoring your mockery.

You turn around and for a short instant, look genuinely surprised by my offer.

“Why would I stay?” You ask, as if it was an inane proposition, the last idea that could have occurred to you.

I furrow my brow and offer you a cynical smile, trying to conceal my disappointment.

“Yes. Indeed. Why?” What did I expect? No matter how hard I try, I’ll never bridge the gap I deliberately dug years ago. Only that fragile rope bridge built between us still leads me to the doors of your mind, but I know the wooden boards eroded by years of disagreement can break under my weight at any moment. “A cab will be there by two o’clock”, I say, leaving the room.

“Mycroft!”

I turn back. You stare at me and I raise an inquisitive eyebrow to encourage you to speak.

“No need to worry yourself sick. I won’t take anything.”

You know me better than I thought. I’d like to be fully convinced by your promise, but I just can’t dispel my fears so I simply nod.

“Don’t forget to drink a lot of water to rehydrate. Brandy disagrees with you. You look terrible.”

A grin lights up your weary face.

“Not as much as you do.”

I smile back at you.

“Have a nice day, Sherlock.”

* * *

 

 

_(*) Maison Bertaux is a renowed patisserie in Greek street, London._

**_ Thanks for reading!  _ **

**Published on January 12. 2016**

 


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